


Red in Tooth and Claw

by DarthNickels



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Dogs, Gen, It's a metaphor!, One Shot, Some badly-parsed biology from an Atlantic article I read, Who we choose to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 06:12:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarthNickels/pseuds/DarthNickels
Summary: Miami-Metro is investigating the body of a woman mauled to death by her own dog. Dexter watches, observes, adds some fine detailing to his human-suit.





	Red in Tooth and Claw

               It’s a gruesome scene. A retiree—or the remains of a retiree, mauled to death by her own dog.

               So much for man’s best friend.

               “Stop saying creepy shit,” Doakes barked, “and do your goddamn job.” He stalked off, muttering “no fuckin’ respect” under his breath. I look at Masuka, shrug, and raise my camera for a close-up of the throat wounds.

               “This is why,” Angel was telling me, earnestly, “this is why I don’t have fuckin’ dogs, man. This shit is _why_.”

               “I think this case is an outlier,” I say. I’m neutral when it comes to dogs—I don’t like them, and they certainly don’t like me—but in a world of dog-lovers, neutrality stands out.

               “Things are vicious,” Angel goes on. He doesn’t share my political neutrality, and with good reason: I’ve seen the scar on his thigh, just above the knee, where a rogue K-9 grabbed him at the tender age of seven. “I won’t have them in my fucking house.”

               “Cat people,” Masuka muttered, shaking his head. “Gonna die a little old lady, Batista.”

               “Shut the fuck up—”

               “IS ANYONE ELSE INTERESTED IN SOLVING A GODDAMN CRIME TODAY?” Doakes bellowed from across the room.

               “Not sure there’s a crime here,” Angel shrugged, “other than letting people keep animals they can’t handle. Death by misadventure. Case closed—”

               “Hang on,” Masuka said. “We’re not closing shit until I get this timeline straight. How long are they saying she’s been dead?”

               “Days,” I answered, “Somewhere around 48 hours, I’d estimate. But the blood was still wet on the dog when the uniforms came to check it out.”

               “It could have come back for seconds,” Angel suggested, and he looked a little green. I shook my head.

               “If she was mauled, the blood would be everywhere—but other than the pawprints and the pool here, it’s not. And this—” I turned her head gently—Harry taught me to show utmost respect to the remains of those who didn’t deserve to die, and there wasn’t very much of her neck left— “wasn’t made by a dog—whoever did this had thumbs.”

               Angel hissed. “Knife wound?”

               “Maybe. Something with a straight edge, to be sure.” Doakes made his way back across the room and crouched at my side, examining the wound.

               “Son of a bitch,” he muttered.                                                                      

               “Not who we’re looking for, Sergeant. Fido’s innocent.”

               Doakes looks at me like he’d dearly love to feed me to some dogs—piece by piece. “Fine. I’ll get the canvass started, see who saw what. What’s the odds the dog took a bite out of her attacker?”

                “Not good,” Masuka said. “There’s a busted door in the downstairs bathroom—it looks like the perp managed to corral it in there while he went after the owner. By the time the mutt got out, it was too late.”

               “How’d he get it in there? Someone it knew?”

               “Possibly someone close to the victim,” Angel said. “Was she seeing anyone?”

               “It’s always the boyfriend,” Doakes sighed heavily. “But in this case it could be a care-worker, a repair guy, some sick fuck who preys on old ladies. Nobody get tunnel vision before we know the facts—Batista, you take lead on following up with the family. Morgan I want that report on my desk ASAP, you got it?”

               “We should probably go over and take a look at the dog,” Masuka offered, unrolling his gloves.

               “Not gonna get much of a statement from Cujo,” Angel muttered.

               “No shit,” Masuka rolled his eyes. “But I had my techs get swabs anyways—it’s probably all the vic’s blood, but we could get lucky.”

               “Good work, Masuka,” Doakes chose to ignore the suggestive look accompanying the phrase ‘get lucky’. “Now stop standing around talking about it and get it done!”

* * *

 

               Masuka and I arrived to find the swabbing still in-process. The dog in question—bridle, striped like a tiger—was wagging his tail frantically, and Masuka’s intern was too busy fawning to properly restrain it.

               “He’s just a widdle guy,” she cooed, lifting up a jowl and swiping the dog’s gums with a cotton swab. “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

               “Danni,” Masuka sounded scandalized, which was rare, “this dog ate someone.”

               “He couldn’t help it!” She dropped the swab into a plastic baggie, and took a moment to ruffle the dog’s ears. “He was just so hungwy!”

               Masuka is revolted, and I’m glad its not just me whose confused by the whole display.

               “What?” Danni was defensive. “It’s not his fault. Someone killed his mom, and he was _starving_. Dogs aren’t like people—they don’t get off on chopping up bodies—”

               _Guess I’m not a good boy._

               “—they don’t kill people for fun. It’s all just instinct.” She scratched the pitbull’s ears, solemnly. “You didn’t mean to. You couldn’t help it.”

               The dog half-closed his eyes, the picture of lazy contentment.

               “Stop giving our star witness heavy petting and show me what you got,” Masuka ordered. Danni pouted, but ushered the dog back into his kennel. He peered between the bars with large, sad eyes.

               “Poor thing,” Danni sighed. “His mommy was murdered, and they want to put him down because of what he went through. He only did what he had to. It was survival.”

               I look at the dog, and the dog is looking at me—meeting my eyes with a solemn, knowing gaze.

               Which is what I might believe, if I experienced delusions. Luckily for everyone in the greater Miami-Dade area, I don’t. I busy myself with Danni’s findings—blood, some scraps of tissue, and a few very promising fibers.

               “Our boy did fetch,” Masuka muttered. “It this doesn’t match anything the vic was wearing—”

               “It could be from our guy,” I finish. “Will it be enough to get Rover off the hook?”

               “His name is Bandit,” Danni told me seriously.

               “Thank you, Danni,” Masuka sighed. “These need to be run at the lab, so you’re free to go do that.” Danni looked at Bandit’s kennel longingly. “ _Now_. Go. Shoo!”

               “Fine,” she pouted, and swept out of the room. Bandit rested his head on his paws, mournful.

               “Do you think they’ll really put it down?” I ask. Masuka shrugs.

               “Probably. Once they eat a person, there’s no going back.”

               “Bandit hungers for flesh?” You wouldn’t know it by looking at him. Makes two of us.

               “Nah, probably not—but no one really wants to adopt a dog like that. Damaged. You’d always be like, thinking about it in the back of your mind—'my dog ate some little old lady’. People don’t wanna deal with the heavy stuff like that.”

               “I guess not,” I admit, packing the samples away. “Astor wants a dog. She’s writing an essay to convince me why we should get her one.”

               “And she doesn’t have one yet? After an _essay_? Heart of ice, Dex.”

               “What if it eats her?” I ask, joking. “It’s like Danni said—wolf instinct.”

               “Bro, you’re lucky I know you’re read up on blood stuff, because you are fucking fifty years behind on evolutionary biology,” Masuka said, seriously.  “Fucking dark ages, dude.”

               “Enlighten me.”

               “You might be a lost cause—I’m gonna put this in Astor’s hands. I’m leaving you some printouts on your desk for that poor, deprived child.”

               “She’s nine, peer-reviewed studies might be a little out of her wheelhouse.”

               “Don’t underestimate the young people, Dex,” Masuka said, knowingly. “She could be on the fast-track to analytic greatness. Uncle Masuka is gonna make sure she’s tenured by twenty-five.”

* * *

 

               Astor has large, dark eyes, almost too big for her pale face; she always seems to be solemnly looking up at you through her lashes. Deferential and calculating, it’s the look of a child who is painfully aware of the rampant cruelty and violence in the world. Cody will beg and plead, but Astor will hold out for something she really wants, until she can apply her leverage in just the right place.

               Hence, the posterboard and craft-glitter masterpiece she’s presenting to us, laying out the case for why she deserves a dog.

               “In conclusion,” she says, wrapping up her argument with the seriousness of an expert lawyer, “dogs and humans have lived together for a long, long time, and having dogs has been good for human civilization. Because of that, we should have a dog.”      

               She pauses, awkwardly, then takes a bow. Rita claps enthusiastically, and I follow suit—it’s a good speech. It’s too bad it won’t work.

               I’ll make it up to her somehow.

               “Very nice, Astor,” Rita is glowing with pride. “Very convincing.”

               “So when are we getting a dog?” Straight to the point. Rita’s face fell.

               “Well—” she looked at me, uncertainly.

               “You said it was good,” Astor pressed. “I’m right. So why can’t we have one?”

               “Sweetheart—” I recognize the look on Rita’s face—I saw a shadow of it in Harry more than once. The helplessness that comes with inability to follow through on that driving parental instinct, to make everything better for their child. I can’t relate, but I realize that I don’t like watching Rita feel it.

               “This is stupid. I don’t know why I even try,” Astor storms off, the bitterness of her words hanging in her wake. Rita stands to go after her, but I take her arm.

               “She might need some space,” I offer. Rita sits heavily back against the couch, leaning her neck over the back, sighing.

               “Its not that I think she couldn’t handle it,” she said. “But there’s vet bills, food, toys—they’re at school and I’m at work, and with our schedule I just…” she trailed off.

For all those objections, it wouldn’t be impossible. I have money set aside just for Rita Expenses. I have flexible hours that let me move around during the day.

               But there’s the real issue: me.

               “Maybe a goldfish?” I offer, and it falls flat. Rita turns to me, and smiles sadly.

               “I know you don’t like dogs,” she said.

               “It’s not that I don’t—”

               “—and after that case you’re working on, I’m not surprised,” she said. I shut up and nod, letting her take the lead. Rita is better at making excuses than I am—I wonder if I am any better than Paul, living large on her trusting, enabling nature.

               “Can’t fight instinct,” I shrug.

               “You think?” She asked.

               “It’s a fact of nature.”

               “Nature or nurture?” she counters, and I cringe internally. I’m simply not built for philosophical debate—I have nothing to offer on existential matters. I am confined to the shallow end of human experience. I don’t have a deeper waters to plumb.

               “Not sure if that’s as big a deal with dogs,” I start, cautiously. “They just hear the call of the wild and—they’re off,” literature, also not my strong suit.

               “Mmm, I don’t think so,” Rita shook her head. “I was reading those papers your friend gave Astor—which was sweet of him, by the way, I’d like to thank him in person—”

               Now she wants to meet my co-workers. This is spiraling out of control.

               “—anyways, I thought they were interesting. I never really thought about things like before—my great-grandparents grew up on a farm, I just thought domesticating was all about keeping animals trapped long enough for them to give up on being free.”

               “It’s not?”

               “Well,” she laughs, “maybe for cows. But that’s not what they were saying in the article about dogs and wolves and things.”

               I’m lost. Rita scoots closer to me, and I automatically drape my arm around her, something I know she enjoys. She leans against my chest and sighs.

               “I just thought it was sweet. A big, scary wolf comes to a hunter’s camp, lured by food—or the warmth of the fire—or just lonely and wanting a friend— and instead of violence, there’s understanding. They stay. The man and the dog get tame enough to work together.” She looks up at me, smiling. “They called it ‘self-domesticating’. Isn’t that funny?”

               I smile back at her, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.

               “They’re so different from us, but they understand, in their own way.” She definitely expects a response from me—the best I can come up with is:

               “Did you have dogs as a kid?”

               “I did,” she laughs, revisiting fond memories. “A three-legged mutt who’d been hit by a car. Her name was Poochie and we fed her vanilla ice-cream,” her smile changed, turning a little sad. “When things were bad at home, Poochie would crawl into my bed and snuggle up to me—she was so little, but it was like she was trying to protect me.” She was so close I could feel her words reverberating in her chest, the warmth of her blood beneath the skin.

               “Poochie bit my dad,” she said, quietly. “He was towering over me, screaming at me, and she just ran between us and grabbed him by the leg. He bled everywhere, and they put her down the next day. She was the only one who ever tried to protect me.”

               “How awful,” I say, automatically, and stroke her hair. That usually works in these situations. I hope it works now.

               “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to just dump that on you.” She stood from the couch, stretching. “I’ve just been thinking about it, lately, after you told me about that case—they’re going to put that dog down too, right?”

               “I think they have to,” I said. “Next-of-kin doesn’t want it.”

               She sighed again. “It just makes me sad,” she lamented. “No one will give that little guy a chance.” She combed her fingers through her hair, fixing where I had mussed it. “I’ll go to talk to Astor—she’ll understand.” She bent over, plating a quick kiss on my forehead. “Dinner tomorrow?”

               “Still on,” I assure her, and she disappears into the kids’ bedroom.

* * *

 

               Astor is upset, which means Rita is upset. I don’t like seeing them unhappy. It’s bad for my cover—there can be no troubles in paradise if I’m to move undetected—but lately I suspect there’s something more to the grating annoyance I feel when Rita’s face turns closed and sad. From my earliest memories I have been driven by compulsions I don’t understand—as a child I lit fires, I dismembered dolls, I fantasized about spilling blood. Once, I killed a neighbor’s dog.

               Today, I brought one home.

               “Ohmygosh!” Astor is deliriously happy, her word running together in one long stream: “ohmygoshDexteryou’retheBESTthankyouthankyouTHANKYOU—”

               Bandit seems equally glad, planting his paws on Astor’s chest and licking her face, making her shriek with glee. I resolve never to tell her where exactly that mouth has been.

               “Dexter,” Rita asked, “is that…?”

               Uh oh. Maybe I miscalculated.

               “You said someone should give him a chance,” I offered. She looked unimpressed.

               “I meant someone _else_ ,” she said, but her expression softened as she watched Astor tear around the yard, chased by her new dog. “I would appreciate it if you run these things by me first. He is going to be living in my house. And he did eat a person—”

               “I can take him back—”

               “Not now you can’t,” Rita said, sternly, and her expression cracks into a smile. “Not when she looks so happy.”

               She takes my arm, and laughs when Cody flies out the front door, screaming about a DOG!! and demanding a turn to play. Personally, I don’t get the appeal. I smile, but its hollow—in giving Astor what she wants, I’ve made things twice as difficult for myself.

               Even so, there’s a certain…satisfaction in seeing them smile. I am a creature of compulsions, pretending to be a human with desires instead of instincts, wants instead of needs—today, I feel accomplished. I am not one of them, but I’ve come to enjoy living among them.

               It’s not so bad, being house-trained.


End file.
